


In The Light of a Full Moon

by QueenofThyme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Soulmates, Trans Draco Malfoy, Veela Draco Malfoy, Werewolf Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofThyme/pseuds/QueenofThyme
Summary: Harry Potter’s secretly a werewolf. Draco Malfoy’s secretly part-veela.They’re soulmates, they just don’t know it yet.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 130





	In The Light of a Full Moon

**Author's Note:**

> For [tonkscoffeekisses](https://tonkscoffeekisses.tumblr.com)

The moon is almost full. Its light burns Harry’s skin through his dorm window, a persistent ache that won’t be ignored. Still, he doesn’t move. At this time of the month, the light will find him no matter how hard he hides. Facing it is easier.

Tonight, the moonlight is so bright, the Black Lake paints a perfect reflection of the sky. Stars frame the moon, muted in its dominating presence. Harry understands the feeling. 

He stares and stares, watching as grey clouds pass into the light only to disappear into darkness once more. Sleep is far away for him, even as Ron snores peacefully across the dormroom. Lately, Harry spends more time on this windowsill than his own bed, resting his head against the cool glass to stifle the fire beneath his skin.

Sometime past midnight and before sunrise when all time rolls into one, a lone figure appears on the lake, in the edge of the moonlight. They glide over the water’s calm surface as if on ice, twisting and spinning with indescribable grace. Something like a cloak – or wings? – flows behind them complementing every rhythm of their lithe body. 

The figure is both shadow and light, drawing from and against the moon with each movement. Harry’s transfixed, _hypnotised_ , eyes tracking the graceful stranger in and out of the pale light for what must be hours but passes as if seconds. When the sun finally rises, for the first time since his transformation, Harry wishes for the moon’s return. 

“Did I snore?”

Harry wrenches his gaze from the Black Lake to focus on his best friend. Ron Weasley, dressed only in loose pyjama pants and one knitted sock, blinks at Harry sleepily as he pushes tuffs of orange bed-hair from his eyes. Crusts of dried drool still stick to his chin.

“No,” Harry answers.

“You’re lying.”

Harry shrugs. “I barely noticed.”

“But Hermione will. I was sure the spell would do it.”

“Isn’t there a potion?” Harry asks. He’s sure Ron mentioned something about this last week but he was only half-listening. It had been the day Malfoy flew paper cranes around his head in Potions and earnt them a shared detention, and Harry had been too focused on perfecting his glaring technique. 

Ron pouts as he wipes sleep-gunk from his eyes. “Yeah, but we’d need help and I’m not asking Hermione.”

“What about the half-blood prince?”

* * *

“Professor Snape, if you please. Or at the very least, _sir_. I might be dead but I still expect a level of respect from students.”

“Sorry,” Ron says quickly. “I mean, sorry, _sir_.” He covers his mouth with one hand and leans in to Harry’s side. “He’s even more of a git in portrait form.”

“Just play along,” Harry whispers back. To Snape, he smiles politely in the way that usually gets him what he wants from professors, even if it leaves him feeling icky after. “We asked Professor Slughorn for some Potions assistance, _sir_ , but he wasn’t able to help us.”

Portrait Snape tucks an oily strand of hair behind his ear and his thin lips twist into a smug smile. “You should have come straight to me.”

Harry nods, and kicks Ron in the shins to encourage him to do the same. “We know that now, sir.”

They explain the potion they need help brewing, artfully skirting around the reason why. It’s not a topic either of them are keen to broach with any Professor, let alone Snape. Luckily, the greasy ex Potions Master doesn’t ask any questions, but he does click his tongue discouragingly.

“The most simple solutions generally require the most needlessly complex potions. Neither of you could hope to master such a potion by the end of the school year.”

Ron leans forward optimistically. “We thought you could–”

“Step out of my frame and do all the work for you both? Do you two insufferable dunderheads ever think anything through?”

Harry catches Ron’s eye and they both grimace sheepishly. They haven’t experienced Snape’s taunts for some time now but the sting of accumulated humiliation hits just the same.

“However…”

Ron snaps back to attention. “Yes?”

“There _is_ someone else who could brew it for you.” Snape’s slow drawl is patronising. “I’m afraid you’ll be even less thrilled to ask for their help.”

* * *

“You’re not seriously considering this?” Harry asks. He leans against the dungeon wall by the entrance to Slughorn’s classroom, ready to serve his final detention with Malfoy. Ron, having followed to action Snape’s awful advice, leans on the wall opposite.

“Harry, you don’t get it because you don’t have a girlfriend.”

Harry makes a face.

“Or a boyfriend.”

Harry makes another face.

“Or a partner,” Ron finally amends. “Hermione and I have been dating for almost six months now. If we don’t _you know_ soon, she’s going to lose interest.”

“She is not!” Harry laughs because the idea is so ridiculous. Ron and Hermione are the most revolting lovey-dovey couple Hogwarts has likely ever seen. They’re always holding hands, even beneath the table during classes, and their public snogs are infamous. 

Ron doesn’t join in, or even crack a smile. He’s serious. Harry stops laughing.

“You know Malfoy’s going to tell you no, right?”

Ron ducks his head, the tips of his ears flushing as they always do at any sign of confrontation. “About that…”

“No,” Harry counters immediately as soon as he understands. “Ron, _no_.”

“But you already have detention together and–”

“And Malfoy will either curse me on the spot or, worse, agree and laud this over my head for the rest of the school year. No, for the rest of my life!”

“Harry, _please_.”

Before Harry can reject Ron’s shameless grovelling, Malfoy appears at the end of the corridor and stalks towards them with the usual air of arrogance and superiority.

“Weasley, _Potter_ ,” Malfoy addresses them both with a sneer and ducks into the classroom.

“ _Potter_ ,” Harry mimics under his breath in the same snide tone.

Ron laughs. “So–”

“No guarantees,” Harry interrupts. “And no more PDA with Hermione in front of me.”

Ron’s initial smile drops. “No _snogging_ ,” he bargains, “but everything else is fair game.”

“No cutesy nick-names either.” If Harry has to hear _itty-bitty-pumpkin-pie_ one more time…

“Fine,” Ron agrees, but he pouts, sullen at the deal. He kicks off the wall and drops his hands in his pockets. “Good luck.”

Harry steels himself and corrects his posture before entering the classroom. He’s a Gryffindor, he can do this. So what if Malfoy is, _well_ , Malfoy. Harry’s faced much worse opponents. The difference is, he’s never asked those opponents for _help_. An unwelcome shiver of ick crawls up his spine.

Professor Slughorn sits hunched over the desk at the front of the room, three untouched quills scratching over long stretches of parchment in front of him. He glances up at Harry’s entrance.

“Ah yes, you’re finally here, m’boy. Dreadful business detention, isn’t it? I’ll be glad to see you out the door in an hour. You’ll be reordering the supply cupboard today.” He gestures to the open cupboard door. “Your peer has already made a start.” His nose scrunches unfavourably at the mention of Malfoy.

So, not only does Harry have to plead for Malfoy’s help, he has to do it in an enclosed space filled with a variety of poisonous ingredients. On the day before his first transformation of the month. What could go wrong? 

“Anything in vials, leave to me,” Malfoy says, cross-legged on the floor, as Harry walks in. “Can’t have your meaty hands breaking everything.”

“I don’t have meaty hands.” Harry picks up a vial at eye-level to prove his point but the glass is slimy and it immediately slips through his grip.

Malfoy catches it with an effortless suspension charm and raises an eyebrow pointedly.

“ _Fine_ ,” Harry says. “You do vials.”

Malfoy smirks. Not the best start to asking a favour. Harry puts off the question for now, setting to work on sorting the larger potions ingredients that won’t evade his (meaty) hands.

It’s Malfoy who breaks the silence twenty or so minutes in, scrambling Harry’s repeating inner monologue of _ask now, get it over with, ask now, get it…_

“The cranes were supposed to be funny.”

Harry thinks back to the five or six origami cranes circling his head in glass and occasionally nipping at his face. They only stopped their assault when he’d plucked them out of the air and drowned them into Hermione’s disillusionment potion. “I’m not laughing.”

“They symbolise longevity,” Malfoy says simply.

Harry waits for further explanation, particularly surrounding the humourous element, but nothing is forthcoming. “And?” he finally prompts.

Malfoy, still seated on the floor of the cupboard, stares up at Harry disbelievingly. “You’re the boy who _lived_.”

“ _Haha_ ,” Harry offers weakly. In truth, he still doesn’t get why it’s funny. Especially not when he’s serving his third detention because the cranes off-balanced Hermione’s potion and coated the entire room with a healthy dose of iridescent sludge.

They continue work in silence except for the occasional whisper of a summoning or cleaning charm. The ingredients stored in the cupboard vary significantly in ick-factor from benign plant powders to live newt eyeballs that keep attempting to roll off the edge of the top shelf, coating everything in their path with a film of sticky eye-goo.

Harry spends at least ten minutes chasing one particularly enthusiastic eyeball around the cupboard. He finally catches it in an ill-considered lunge that, although successful, also sends his foot crashing down over a cache of vials beside Malfoy.

Malfoy jumps up immediately, avoiding the mix of multi-coloured fluids seeping over the floor between pieces of broken glass. “Here I thought your hands were the only risk. I greatly underestimated your capacity for disaster.”

Harry jams the eyeball into a jar and slams the lid shut before it can roll out again. “Are they dangerous?” he asks, eyeing the smashed vials by their shoes.

“On their own: no. Together: let’s not find out. Come over here. Vanishing liquids is tricky.”

Harry leaps over the spreading solutions to join Malfoy at the entrance. He watches as Malfoy’s wand twirls between deft fingers, vanishing charm under way. Malfoy’s sharp features tighten, all focus directed forward. The distraction helps resurface Harry’s Gryffindor courage.

“I need to ask you a favour.”

A crease between Malfoy’s brows deepens.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a favour,” Harry continues. “It could be a deal. But–” the words feel wrong leaving his mouth– “I do need your help.”

“Out with it, Potter,” Malfoy snaps between whispered incantations. “You’re making me lose my concentration.”

How to begin? “R–” he starts, then falters. He suspects Ron isn’t too keen on having Malfoy, of all people, privy to his insecurities. And there’s no reason why Malfoy needs to know who the potion is actually for… Harry starts again.

“I have a friend who wants to take the next step – _you know_ – with his girlfriend and spend the night in her dorm, but he’s worried about his snoring. We– he– I– thought you might be able to brew a potion for it.”

“A _friend_ ,” Malfoy repeats.

Harry suddenly realises how obvious he’s being. Ron’s his only male friend – of course Malfoy would make the connection. “A friend of a friend,” he revises hastily. “Some guy from Beauxbaxtons.”

“And nobody in Beauxbaxtons can brew this potion for your… _friend of a friend_.”

“Apparently it’s tricky.” Harry nods at the clear floor as Malfoy’s wand lowers. “You’re good at tricky.”

“I am,” Malfoy agrees.

“So?”

Malfoy returns to the rear of the cupboard and sinks to the floor, cross-legged again. “No.”

The answer is firm. Final. It’s not quite the humiliation Harry imagined asking for help would cause, but it’s not a solution either. He places the jar of eyeballs on a shelf – carefully – and joins Malfoy on the floor, even as his limbs protest, already growing sore in the wake of his impending transformation.

“Why not?” he asks.

Malfoy summons another row of vials, guiding them past Harry with a wide patronising berth. “It doesn’t serve my interests.”

 _Obviously_ , Harry wants to respond, _because your interests are all self-serving_. “I’m not asking you to do it for free,” he says instead. “Name your price.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You’re telling me there’s nothing at all you want?”

Malfoy’s eyes catch Harry’s for a charged second before falling away. “Nothing you can give me.”

There’s a nervous stubborn energy radiating from Malfoy that Harry understands because he’s felt it himself: the pride of independence versus the need for help.

“Try me,” Harry offers.

Malfoy’s pale cheeks quickly fill with colour and the words come out in a rush: “Can I sit with you in the Great Hall?”

Harry opens his mouth and closes it again. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this. Malfoy wants to sit with him? As what? Friends? After all this time spent as rivals? Were the ‘funny’ cranes meant as a peace offering?

“I don’t want to be your friend, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Malfoy continues.

“I wasn’t,” Harry quickly lies. He has no idea why he came to such a wild conclusion. This is _Malfoy._

“Only I’m about to do something, and if I do it while I’m hanging out with Harry Potter, nobody can say anything. At least, not to my face. Not when the Chosen One is around.”

Harry sits up a little straighter, drawn into the mystery immediately. “What are you going to do?”

“Will you agree to my terms?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. If you’re going to, say, murder someone, it doesn’t seem like a reasonable deal.”

Malfoy recoils at the suggestion but doesn’t meet Harry’s eye. “It’s nothing like that. I’ll just need you to sit with me at mealtimes, and walk me to classes, and escort me to my dorm each night.”

“What could you possibly be planning that would require that much protection?”

“Do. You. Agree?” Malfoy asks slowly, seriously.

Harry considers; it’s a tall order for one needlessly complicated anti-snoring potion but now that he knows Malfoy’s planning something, he absolutely _must_ know what it is.

“If it’s not murder, sure.”

Malfoy swallows so forcibly Harry’s beginning to think it _is_ murder. Then, Malfoy speaks.

“I’m trans, and I want to come out. As a bloke. Preferably immediately.”

_Oh._

“I can’t sit with you at dinner tonight,” Harry suddenly realises. Funny how quickly he’d forgotten about the moon when it usually dominates his thoughts.

“I knew you’d renege on the deal when you found out.” Malfoy’s voice is cool but it doesn’t mask the hurt in his eyes.

“No, it’s not that,” Harry quickly clarifies. Sure, he’s surprised, but he’s not a total arsehole. “It’s just tonight. And tomorrow night. And maybe the night after. But breakfast and lunch, I’m all yours. Well, not _yours_ , but available. Not available like _available_ …” Harry stops when he realises he’s rambling and starts again. “I’ll meet you at your dorm tomorrow morning before breakfast.”

Malfoy nods mutely and they both return to their task of reordering the supply cupboard. Harry wants to say more but he’s not sure anything supportive will sound genuine coming from his mouth so he remains silent. In the silence, his thoughts inevitably drift to the moon.

* * *

The moon isn’t visible yet, still subservient to the sun before darkness descends, but Harry can feel it anyway, watching him, creeping over his skin, waiting to take him over. He shudders and keeps walking, focusing on one foot in front of the other, holding onto his humanity for as long as the day allows.

The Whomping Willow barely groans when Harry prods its base with a fallen branch. Each month it puts up less of a fight, resigned to the inevitability of Harry’s return. The long tunnelled walk to the Shrieking Shack is harrowing as always, damp earth closing him in on both sides, light fading behind, only ever darkness ahead.

Strictly, banishing himself to the Shrieking Shack isn’t necessary. With the advanced Wolfsbane potion Hermione prepares for him, Harry maintains enough of his mental state to remain in control should any human happen across him. But, it doesn’t do anything for the physical change and Harry can’t bear for anyone to see him like this, more animal than human. No, he has to distance himself each night of the full moon. It’s the only way. Except…

Except, shut up in the Shack with boarded windows in the middle of Hogsmeade, Harry will never know if that graceful figure appears on the Black Lake again tonight. He struggles against the temptation to leave his self-imposed prison just for a glimpse. Nothing else has tested his resolve like this.

The change is slow. To a spectator, the opposite may appear true; the final physical transformation happens within minutes. But that’s only one small part of it. Prior to that, each of Harry’s senses heightens gradually as his body pushes out the human and welcomes in the wolf. By sunset, he can see each broken wing of the fly stuck in a silk net hanging from the far dark corner of the Shack, he can smell the chocolate birthday cake strapped to an owl sneaking into the Gryffindor Tower, and he can feel every hair on his body growing and thickening.

The moon is full; the change is complete.

The wolf – Harry sort of – curls up in the centre of the room and waits. He won’t sleep. He tracks every movement of every spider, every swing of the Whomping Willow’s branches, alert for any trace of human contact. He will not be discovered.

A full melodic voice carries into the Shrieking Shack, challenging its namesake. The wolf is on his paws at once, escape routes already planned. Except no human is approaching. The voice carries still, and Harry wills the wolf to place the sweet sound. Although he has never heard it before, the sensation it invokes, the _yearning_ it demands, is familiar.

All at once the realisation hits – the voice must belong to the figure on the lake. They’ve returned. It takes all Harry’s willpower to stop the wolf from bounding through the walls of the Shrieking Shack, sprinting through the underground tunnel and joining them on the Black Lake. Harry’s never had so much trouble with his control before. He’ll have to get Hermione to up his dose of Wolfsbane. For now, he forces the wolf to settle and lets the voice wash over them both. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

As promised, Harry waits outside Malfoy’s dorm in the morning. He had to bribe a third year with an autograph to get into the Slytherin Dungeons and he knows he’s going to regret it later. Breakfast has long started, but as of yet, no Malfoy. Harry’s been here since early dawn, only stopping by his own dorm for a quick change; he couldn’t have missed Malfoy. He knocks on the door.

“Malfoy? You in there?”

No response.

“It’s Harry. I mean, Potter. Is our deal still on?”

Nothing.

Harry knocks again, louder. “You’re going to miss breakfast,” he yells into the door. “You should know at the Gryffindor table we always make the last person there chug a bottle of Veritaserum and spill–”

The door swings open. “You do not,” Malfoy counters. His long blonde hair is slicked back like his father’s and his uniform almost matches Harry’s, his usual Hogwarts skirt transfigured into grey slacks. All he’s missing is a Slytherin tie.

Harry loosens his own and pulls it over his head, offering it to Malfoy. “Here, you can transfigure the colours.”

Malfoy stares at the tie, leaving Harry’s outstretched hand hanging.

“I’m not good at detailed magic,” Harry explains. “I’d probably turn it into a snake or something.”

Malfoy takes the tie and whispers something that sounds like “Thanks” but can’t be because, well, this is Malfoy. He effortlessly transforms the colour and spells it to tie around his neck with one graceful flick of his wand. _Show-off._

“You ready?”

Malfoy nods mutely and they start the journey to the Great Hall together, side by side, like friends but not. To be fair, Malfoy hasn’t directed any sneer Harry’s way yet but it’s only a matter of time. Malfoy walks with his usual haughtiness, but his eyes betray him as they flicker frantically between passing students. A couple of students stare but Harry returns the favour and they quickly look away, embarrassed at being caught.

At the doors to the Great Hall, Malfoy pauses and takes an audible breath. Harry waits patiently. No matter his personal beef with Malfoy, he doesn’t envy him this.

“Oh,” Harry says as he realises, “I don’t even know your new name.”

Malfoy smiles softly at the doors. “Draco,” he says. The smile morphs into a smirk as he turns to Harry. “But you can still call me Malfoy.”

Ron and Hermione barely blink as Malfoy sits down at the Gryffindor table. Harry had warned them ahead of time to be respectful but they’re laying it on a bit thick.

“Um,” Harry says awkwardly as he takes the adjacent seat, “well, you already know Ron and Hermione, and guys, you know Malfoy.”

“ _Draco_ ,” Malfoy corrects, smiling pleasantly at Harry’s friends and holding out a hand. Ron and Hermione both shake it.

“You’re a prat,” Harry tells him. Malfoy only smiles wider – he must know how infuriating it is.

“Don’t be rude, Harry,” Hermione admonishes. She turns back to Malfoy. “We’re happy to have you here, Draco.” Her eyes flick down to his shirt and she pulls out her wand.

Malfoy clutches his chest defensively. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Masculine shirts traditionally button the other way,” Hermione explains, pointing her wand square at his chest.

Only once Malfoy lowers his arms and nods his permission does Hermione cast a transfiguration spell, reversing the direction of the buttons.

“Does that even matter?” Ron asks. “I’d never have noticed.”

“I thought it would matter to Draco," Hermione says.

“You’re right. Thank you.”

This time, Harry’s sure of it. Malfoy’s said thank you. Can this day get any weirder?

* * *

Yes, it can.

Harry knows how it must look escorting Malfoy to class while holding his books but he’d only offered the book thing as a joke. He hadn’t expected Malfoy would immediately take him up on it with an insufferable smirk. At least now instead of staring at Malfoy, other students are staring at Malfoy _and_ Harry, like…like they’re a couple.

“Should we get matching tattoos?” Malfoy whispers to Harry on one such walk between classes. “If you’ve got space on your inner forearm, I know a great ink artist.”

It takes Harry a minute to realise Malfoy’s referring to the Dark Mark and Voldemort. “Is that…is that a joke?” he asks.

Malfoy shrugs. “No, Potter, I’m dead serious,” he says tonelessly. Harry has no idea what to make of it.

* * *

After their last class of the day, Harry leaves Malfoy safely with Ron and Hermione for dinner and heads to the Shrieking Shack once more. His wolf senses are already strong, sniffing out the dishes appearing in the Great Hall, even from outside the castle. He hungers to turn around but maintains his straight path to the Shrieking Shack, only pausing at the foot of the Whomping Willow to stare out across the Black Lake. He managed to convince Hermione to increase his Wolfsbane dosage by half today. Hopefully it will improve the wolf’s discipline.

The voice is late tonight, so late the wolf’s fur prickles with relief when it finally reaches his ears. The song is wordless but there’s no ignoring the siren’s call. Yearning floods straight through the wolf and into Harry’s mind like a slap in the face. The song hurts, if only because of the distance, and yet Harry does not want it to end. He’ll gladly remain as a wolf forever to stay locked in this moment.

Early in the morning, the song stops.

The wolf howls.

* * *

“Where were you last night?” Malfoy asks at the Breakfast table.

No matter how many times the question is posed, it still fills Harry with the same dread. He catches Hermione’s eye and quickly looks away. “I had plans.”

Malfoy laughs, but it’s not his usual cruel curling inflection. When Harry looks over he’s even smiling in a way that might be genuine.

“Tip for next time,” he says, “‘ _Fuck off_ ’ would have been a more convincing cover-up.”

Ron laughs too, spitting out a mouthful of cereal into his bowl.

Irritation prickles at the back of Harry’s neck at his best friend siding with Malfoy. “Fine. It’s none of your business,” he amends. “Happy now?”

“Never.”

Ron’s still laughing and Harry feels like he’s missing something. While Harry was hiding in the Shrieking Shack last night, did Malfoy somehow bond with his best friends? The sour jealously only passes through Harry for a moment before he remembers the reason for Malfoy’s presence in their group. He softens. 

“Did anyone give you trouble at dinner?” he asks.

It’s just a casual question but Malfoy replies “No,” too quickly. He must know he’s given himself away because he follows the lie with a wince.

Harry turns to Hermione. “Who?”

* * *

“Theodore Nott,” Harry spits out, letting the wolf indulge in a soft growl.

He shouldn’t be confronting anyone during a full moon, even in the day, but he can hardly wait any longer. He promised to protect Malfoy and if he can’t be present at night to do that, he can certainly make quick work of the problem now.

He had to excuse himself from his final period early today and even still, he’s cutting it very fine. He might look human but his wolf is very much awake. In fact, it’s that wolf who sniffed out Theodore’s lone figure lounging by the fire in the Slytherin common room.

Theodore jumps up. “How’d you get in here? Did your best friend _Malfoy_ let you in?”

The wolf smiles, showing off both rows of perfect teeth, and stalks forward.

* * *

Come sunrise the next morning, Hermione’s waiting at the base of the Whomping Willow when Harry surfaces.

“What did you do?” she asks, arms crossed, bushy hair still plopped on top of her head in her usual sleep-bun. Harry continues on past her and she follows.

“Relax, I just scared him a little. He deserved it.”

“Does he know you’re a werewolf?”

Harry shrugs, remembering the way he held Theodore Nott upside down by the fire with one hand and growled in his face multiple times. “He probably suspects.”

“Harry, I thought you wanted to keep this a secret!”

“I did. I do. I don’t know.” Harry shakes his head and pushes matted hair from his eyes; the transformation always leaves him worse for wear. "It’s not that simple, Hermione. There’s so much I have to hold back.”

“Like violence?”

The wolf wants to growl in response but Harry’s in full control now. He frowns at Hermione instead. “I didn’t hurt him. And if I had, he deserved it.”

“I know. I already broke his nose Tuesday night. That’s why he wasn’t in classes yesterday.”

“You _what_?”

Hermione ignores the question. “You know you can’t get angry at this time of the month. It’s dangerous.”

“Can we get back to the broken nose? Wand or fist?”

“Fist, obviously. More satisfying. But it’s not the same for you and you know it.”

“Yeah, I get it, Hermione. You don’t have to worry about the wolf for another month, anyway. Full moon’s over.”

“It’s not the wolf I’m worried about.”

* * *

There’s something off about Malfoy when Harry meets him by his dorm in the morning. Yet, he’s dressed the same as the first day with slicked back hair, grey slacks, a button up shirt and Harry’s tie. Harry runs his eyes back and forth over the uniform, trying to pick out what’s not quite right.

“It’s rude to stare, Potter.”

Harry jerks his head up and locks eyes with Malfoy. “Sorry I didn’t– I wasn’t–” he splutters.

“It’s far too easy to get a rise out of you. You should work on that.” Malfoy drops his hands into his pockets and steps out to walk with Harry. “Besides,” he says as they exit the Slytherin dungeons, “I don’t mind when _you_ stare. You’ve been staring at me since first year.”

Harry doesn’t bother disputing the claim. It’s undeniably true. But, in fairness: “You’ve been doing the same to me.”

Malfoy shrugs. “I’ve been calculating the exact diameter of your head and plotting its increase against your gradual rise of herodom.”

“Huh?”

“It’s what muggles call an exponential trajectory.” Malfoy rolls his eyes as Harry’s expression remains blank. “I.e. you have a big head, Potter.”

Harry snorts. He’s used to insults from Malfoy but this one doesn’t sting as much. “Thanks.”

When they arrive at the Gryffindor table, Ron immediately bursts out laughing, freckled cheeks pressed into his eyes.

Harry discreetly assesses his visible body parts for any remaining wolf fur before sitting down. “What?”

Ron waves a fork between Harry and Malfoy. “Are you two dating now?”

“No,” Harry says at the same time Malfoy says, “ _Yes_.”

Harry’s chest clenches and he whips his head around. “ _What_?”

Malfoy smirks. “Too easy again, Potter.” He stacks his breakfast plate casually, as if he hasn’t just claimed to be dating Harry. “Have some self-control.”

He’s… _joking_? Who makes jokes like that? Malfoy apparently.

Harry turns back to Ron. “Why do you think we’re dating?”

Ron nods at Malfoy’s chest.

Harry follows his eyes and the sense of off-ness to Malfoy today clicks into place. “The spell faded,” he says, noting the red and gold colours of the tie wrapped around Malfoy’s neck.

Malfoy appears unphased by the revelation. “Oh, yes,” he says, setting his knife and fork down delicately. “I thought it was an improvement. If people suspect I’m sleeping with Potter, it helps my social standing.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

Malfoy shrugs. “You saw the tie. You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“It’s scarlet and gold. They’re not exactly my colours.“

“I think they suit you.” Only after he says it does Harry realise his counter sounds like less of a argument and more like–

“If you’re going to flirt with me, Potter, do it louder so people will overhear.”

Harry’s annoyed huff is drowned out by Ron’s chuckles. “Thanks,” he says sarcastically to his best friend before directing his perfected glare at Malfoy. “You’re a complete arse.”

Malfoy smiles wickedly. “You are what you eat.”

Somehow, Ron’s laughter grows louder, tears spilling down his cheeks. Even Hermione joins in with a snort at Harry’s expense. Harry crosses his arms and refuses to look at any of them until Malfoy transfigures the tie back to green and silver.

Turns out Malfoy's far more trouble as his friend than his rival. 


End file.
